


Breathing Space

by Val Mora (valmora)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 2010 Eyjafjallajökull Eruptions, M/M, death of Lech Kaczynski, shipboard cruise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-27
Updated: 2011-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:51:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valmora/pseuds/Val%20Mora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ash cloud makes intimacy a little uncomfortable, but they manage anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathing Space

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to the Kink Meme [here](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/15769.html?thread=45630105#t45630105), in response to [this prompt](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/13125.html?thread=31995717#t31995717), and not officially kindexed yet.
> 
> Sweden has historically been an important source of iron ore, not gold. Finland exports timber and has a strong metal manufacturing industry.

Things are too slow to panic. The shadows in the sky, the silence of no planes in his airspace, makes him want to sleep, to relax. He can understand why England is panicking, with the money bleeding out of him, and of course Sweden feels it, the bruising in his hands and shoulders as a result of the disruptions. But the silence of no planes is foreign, now, like the sudden blank scream after an explosion. He hadn’t realized it had become white noise.

Finland is with him, and fretting – they sent their condolences to Poland, of course, but they wanted to attend the funeral, and now that will be difficult. Even by boat it would be close timing, and finally they call him to send their apologies as well for being unable to attend.

“It’s okay,” he says, and he sounds tired. “Thanks for the condolences and stuff. I’ll catch you guys on the other side of the ash cloud.”

“Yes,” Sweden says, gravely. Things are not easy for any of them, these days. He watches Finland, sitting at the table reading the newspaper, brush his hair out of his eyes. Dust falls out of his hair and onto the newsprint. They’ve been taking showers twice a day just to try to keep clean. Iceland has locked himself in his house, but he sent an email saying he’s been exhaling smoke for the past three days and is drinking water to try to keep his lungs from filling with ash and turning t stone.

Finland shuts the newspaper with a sharp snap of pages and says, “I’m sick of this. Let’s take a vacation.”

Sweden pauses, then looks up at the sky.

“Not by plane,” Finland sighs. “But the symptoms won’t be as bad if we take a few days off, and I want to feel not gritty for more than five minutes at a time.”

Sweden considers that, then says, “Where?”

“Someplace within reasonable distance by car, boat, or train.”

“…not Tallinn.”

“He’s at Poland’s place anyway,” Finland points out. “Besides, if I get drunk now I’ll be hurling up volcanic ash, which tastes bad enough on its way down.”

Sweden resists the urge to suggest that they stay at home. If they stay in one of their official residences, they won’t really be inaccessible to work, and inevitably someone in the bureaucracy will call one of them, invalidating the whole point of taking a vacation in the first place.

“Mariehamn?” he suggests.

Finland tilts his head and taps his fingers on the table. “Ahvenanmaa didn’t visit at Christmas, so we could probably get away with it.”

Åland probably had far more fun spending four days with Gibraltar than he would have in Lapland, anyway, starting with the part where he probably got to sleep with his girlfriend instead of having to share a room with Uusimaa.

“You goin’ to call him?”

Finland tilts his head, and smiles, and edges past Sweden on his way to the landline phone on the counter. The space isn’t small, but he comes too close, and the heat of his clothing seems to linger on Sweden’s skin from where they brushed against each other, shoulders and hips and chests.

 

 

 

 

Of course Åland says they can visit. Sweden assumes he’s not particularly happy about it, but he doesn’t say it, so the permission stands, and they diplomatic-pass their way into tickets. Sweden tries not to look at the sky, the dust and ash, as they board the ship. He passes the time until dinner by walking on the deck, brushing dust out of his hair into the water. His skin is grimy and grey and he wonders what Norway and Denmark are doing, but he doesn’t call. It wouldn’t help, but it would mean Norway would be less angry with him – Norway would take a vacation if he could, but Denmark would inevitably visit and ruin whatever peace he could find.

When they were children Sweden used to get upset about being the left-out brother of the three of them, but now that he knows what it’s like to spend days upon days alone with Denmark, and with Norway, he doesn’t mind.

He comes back to the room right before dinner to take a shower to clean off some of the grit. Finland is lying on his stomach in the bed to read, feet kicked up and ankles crossed. It looks like a Finnish translation of a Swedish mystery novel.

He takes a shower and they go to dinner.

Afterwards, darkness fallen around the ship, they take a walk on the deck; the wind is brisk and cold, but they’re used to that. Sweden wishes the ship would rock more. He feels like he is inside and on land, the stars muted by light and by soot. No chart of stars to show them their route; now all the stars they follow are made by men, and shout in radio waves.

They go inside, eventually, and the brightness of the lights hurts Sweden’s eyes. He squints, and goes back to their cabin, while Finland goes elsewhere – presumably to find the alcohol.

He tries to read some of Finland’s book and mostly fails; his Finnish has grown rusty. He loves the sound of the language, and can speak it a little, still, but not – not as Finland can speak Swedish. Not as they can both speak English, now.

He pulls out his computer and opens up his design program, clicking through patterns and wood-grains. Japan has been asking for a new table for his house in Hokkaido, something of course simple and beautiful. Sweden still can’t decide between cedar and cherry wood.

He could ask Finland, since Finland is closer to Japan than he is, but Finland would say he doesn’t care and can’t tell the difference anyway. Not that that stops him standing in the door of the workshop to watch whenever it comes time to sand and varnish tables. He seems to like waching Sweden at that point, maybe because it involves bending over the table and doing physical labor. Usually, when the work’s done, Finland comes up behind him and wraps around him, arms and skin, and as they walk through the house strips him naked until by the time they reach the bedroom he’s wearing nothing but dust and sweat.

Sweden closes his eyes, shifts his weight on the bed to feel the pressure of his trousers, and sets the computer aside.

Leaving the room makes things worse, not better. He can feel all the breaths on the ship, the romance of the rocking sea – he could tell them things about sailing that they would shudder to hear, like the weeping painful medicine of saltwater, and of rowing with blistered bloody hands – and the way his people and Finland’s come together here, with want. He closes his eyes and swallows, and makes his way to the bar, where Finland is only a little warm, hardly even flushed with drink despite the time he’s spent there.

He orders a drink and sits down beside Finland, and Finland says, “I thought you were working on Ja – Kiku’s chair?”

“Need to ask him ‘bout what wood he wants.” Sweden’s drink arrives and he takes a sip. It is bitter, even watered down; he tastes the alcohol more strongly. At least it’s not vodka, which he can smell on Finland’s breath.

Finland’s lips are narrow, soft-looking. Sweden doesn’t like the taste of his mouth when he’s been drinking vodka, but Finland loves it so much.

“I can’t help you,” Finland says. He shifts his grip on the glass and a glance of light flickers off the steel of his engagement ring. Sweden wants to kiss it, turn his hand over and press his lips to Finland’s palm, the inside of his wrist to feel to the pulsing river of his blood.

He looks up and meets Finland’s eyes, which are wide, and his smile is bright with understanding. He must be feeling what’s going on around them, too.

“Finish your drink,” Finland says, and drains his own, sliding out of the chair.

Sweden, standing up, rubs his thumb against his own ring – a stainless steel band with marquetry inlay – to twist it, and follows him back to their cabin.

 

 

 

Back in the room, once the door is closed, Finland pushes him up against the door and rises up onto his toes to kiss Sweden, grittily. It doesn’t last very long and Finland makes a face as they part, then walks into the bathroom to run the water in the sink, gargle, and spit. Sweden watches him. There are silt-tracks on the sink bowl.

“I hate this,” Finland says. “Next thing you know I’ll be shitting sandpaper.”

Sweden winces internally and then, when Finland moves aside, rinses out his own mouth. Washes his hands. The water comes away dark.

“’m gonna take a shower,” Sweden says afterwards, wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist and regretting it when it smears ash into his lips.

“Me too,” Finland says, and he watches as Sweden strips naked.

 

 

 

Finland takes the second shower, and when he steps out, Sweden greets him with a kiss that doesn’t taste of ash. Finland’s arms are tight around his waist, and his hair is soft against Sweden’s fingertips. Sweden kisses down his throat, drinks the water droplets from his skin as they leave the bathroom.

Finland lets go of him long enough for them both to crawl onto the bed, and then is lyng above him, between his legs, hips digging into his as they kiss again.

“Tell me you stretched,” Finland says into his mouth, one hand over his shoulder and the other resting palm against Sweden’s hip, fingers folded beneath him.

“Nn,” Sweden grunts in agreement, sliding his mouth down to Finland’s jaw. He is dislodged by Finland shifting them, using his knees to nudge Sweden’s thighs further apart, and Sweden lifts his own leg to give Finland access.

Finland strokes, gently, the skin over his balls, the space of his perineum, the slicked edge to his opening. Sweden can’t help his muscles tightening, and Finland sighs sweetly. His throat is flushed pink. “I don’t think this is enough lube, especially if we’re going to get ashy again in the middle,” he says consideringly, and Sweden feels the cold air on his skin as Finland leans away to grab the lubricant from the side of the bed. Finland spills it on Sweden’s hand.

“There,” he says, smiling gently, and Sweden strokes him a few times – he’s warm, and feels welcome-solid in Sweden’s hand - before reaching for himself, but Finland catches his wrist and sets it aside.

“Not yet,” he says, and his eyes are beautiful as he presses into Sweden.

It always takes a few moments for them to find how they fit again, for Sweden’s body to remember all the years filled with cold nights where Finland kept him warm just like this. Finland draws out most of the way before sliding in again, and Sweden relaxes as his body recognizes the intrusion.

Finland smiles down at him and drags Sweden’s hips closer, so that he falls deeper inside. “Can you hear the sea?”

Sweden grunts and moves his clean hand to lay it over Finland’s, on his hip.

“Me neither,” Finland says. “We should go try it in a boat sometime. Go fishing at the lake house, bring sunscreen so we don’t burn. Tie your ankles to the rowlocks.”

Sweden feels his body contract at the thought, of being tied open for Finland’s pleasure, caught as securely as any fish they’d find. Coming home too sore to sit and having to do so anyway, still aching from Finland inside him.

He’s close enough, now, that Finland is angled perfectly inside him, the aching unfulfilled heat of wanting Finland sliding in and in and in forever. Finland’s flushed bright red, now, his breathing quick, and the lubricant makes slick loud noises between them.

“You can touch yourself now,” Finland says, at last, when Sweden is pressing against him in the hope of getting him just that little deeper, soft minute rocking together, close and terrible and tight, and as Sweden takes himself in hand – it almost hurts, he’s so close – and Finland half-withdraws to stroke over his prostate again, again, enormous and fire and silver in his blood –

He comes shaking, tensing in waves, and Finland is still hard inside him as it fades, slick and sliding, and mercifully the angle has changed again, otherwise the pleasure of it would be painful.

“If you tied me face-down in the boat,” Sweden points out, “you’d have to put sunscreen everywhere.” He reaches down, a bit of a stretch, to trace from the edge of where Finland is still moving inside him to between Finland’s legs, to caress his balls. “Here. Inside. Deep enough to be sure. All around.”

“Oh -!” Finland gasps, and he comes, pulsing in Sweden’s hand, and inside him. Sweden unfolds his legs, then, and Finland slips out a little but not all the way – it’s all right; it feels good to be filled like this. Comfortable.

“Do you think everyone’s sleeping yet?” Finland asks, collapsing onto his chest.

“Doubt ‘t.”

Finland makes a soft complaining whine and presses his forehead against Sweden’s breast. “You mean we’ll be vibed into it _again_?”

Sweden strokes his shoulder. “Don’t say’t like that,” he says. “Makes ‘t sound like you weren’t havin’ fun.”

“But you’ll hurt tomorrow!”

“…’n then I can lie in bed ‘n you can use my mouth.”

Finland twitches. “Don’t say things like that; my body can’t keep up with my imagination.”

“Don’t mind waitin’,” Sweden says, and holds him closer, feeling the rock of the boat beneath them. For the first time in days, they’re not covered in ash, and the bedsheets are clean of everything but sweat and come.  



End file.
